


Part of the Pack

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [45]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1996, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus goes to the werewolves, but his ghosts follow him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part of the Pack

**Author's Note:**

> Week 45

It’s on the front page of the _Prophet,_ a long article, almost ten paragraphs. _Sirius Black Dead, Pardoned._ Reading it, Remus discovers a curious contempt rising up inside him. For all its length, the article is almost an afterthought—inconsequential, negligible. It leaves out the man with hunched shoulders, his desperate eyes, and all the years he lost.

“Budge over, Lupin.” Silas Jorkins forces himself onto the bench, despite the fact that there isn’t really enough room. “Here.”

Remus takes the bag of Muggle crisps and opens it with a crackle of plastic. “Thank you.” He tries to keep his spine from stiffening.

Silas grins at him. In the light of the single, flickering streetlamp, his teeth appear pointed. “Still reading that rubbish, eh?” He points at the newspaper.

“It’s best to be informed.”

“Informed,” Silas scoffs. “Only thing they ever informed me of was that I’m a monster. You are too, you know. Might as well start acting like it.” He takes the newspaper. “Sirius Black? They’re not still on about him?”

“So it would seem,” Remus murmurs. He eats a crisp. It’s stale.

As he scans the article, Silas frowns. “What’s this about Harry Potter?” He brings the paper closer to his face. “Present at Black’s death, was he? At the Ministry, it says here.” He gives a snort of disgust.

Remus focuses on his crisps.

But Silas looks at him sidelong. “Say, Lupin. You read the newspaper, you drink your tea, you wear your _cardigans_ —not thinking about going back to them, are you?”

“Not—”

“Because you know, they’re only with you until they remember,” Silas continues. “They’ll turn on you as soon as you so much as raise your voice.”

“I’m aware,” Remus tells him, and he is; he’s spent his whole life aware of it, controlling every gesture and expression. “I just think—” But he stops. Silas is watching him, smiling faintly.

“I recognize you,” Silas says. His voice is quiet. “Maybe you don’t remember me. But last winter, Christmas Day, St. Mungo’s—you came in.”

“I wasn’t in St. Mungo’s last Christmas,” Remus says too quickly.

“No, you were there to see a fellow with a snakebite. And Harry Potter was with you. That’s what caught in my memory. Not every day you see the Chosen One.” He says the title with something of a sneer.

“I suppose not,” Remus says slowly, thinking hard. “Look, you must understand—currying favor, well, I had to try something. Who better to turn to than the Boy Who Lived?” He tries to gauge the effect his words are having, but it’s difficult to tell, and he really ought to be better at this. “It didn’t work, of course, which is why I’m here.”

Silas opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. “You coming out next week?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.” Silas chuckles. “You don’t like the wolf, do you, Lupin?”

Remus sighs. “I like it fine,” he says, and even to him it sounds false. “It’s part of me, part of all of us—”

“—part of the Pack,” Silas finishes. “I listen to Greyback too.” He leers at Remus’s flinch, slight though it is.

Forcing himself to relax, Remus glares at the streetlamp, which is growing ever dimmer. It’s harder than he thought to be a convincing spy—just another reason why his life is ridiculous, because how could Sirius have ever thought he was working for Voldemort when the mention of Greyback’s name nearly sends him running for the hills? But here he is, he reminds himself, and Silas is watching. He’s watching much too closely. “What do you think of him?”

“Well, he’s got a point,” Silas says. His voice turns thoughtful. “I never spent much time in civilization after I got the bite, they ran me out that fast. Don’t blame them much—at least, I can see why, with all of Greyback’s notions. But it seems like a self-fulfilling prophecy, right?”

Remus, who has heard quite enough about prophecies, blinks at Silas. “How do you mean?”

“They force us to the edges of society, where we can scarcely feed ourselves, because they say we’re monsters. Then they act surprised when we get a little angry.”

_A little angry_ —Remus is familiar with that sensation. He looks at Silas and feels, not for the first time, that under different circumstances they might get along quite well. If there wasn’t a war. If they weren’t on different sides. If Silas would stop grinning at him like that. “It’s frustrating,” he supplies.

Silas rolls his eyes. “Hitting the nail on the head, you are.”

“Evening, boys,” says a voice from out of the darkness, and Remus nearly drops his crisps. A woman with a long, dark braid strolls toward the bench. “Finished terrorizing the spy?”

Remus really does drop his crisps.

“Relax,” the woman says. Remus recognizes her as a newcomer like him, her face horrifically shredded in scars that stretch down her neck and across what’s visible of her shoulders. Her name, he recalls, is Ines. They’ve crossed paths a few times, but never spoken. “So you’ve got an ulterior motive—who doesn’t?”

Taken aback by the way she is smiling at him, Remus gapes.

Ines glances at Silas. “Kind of jumpy, isn’t he? Not a very _good_ spy.”

“He’s all right,” Silas says unexpectedly. “The newspaper gave him a scare.”

Remus looks at the paper again and sees Sirius’s Azkaban photograph snarling up at him. He represses a peculiar shudder that comes more from grief than anything else. “I don’t want any trouble,” he begins, tearing his eyes away from Sirius.

“Well, you’re getting it,” Ines tells him, “or you will, if you’re not careful.”

He looks at both of them, trying to measure their expressions. “Don’t I know it.”

Ines picks up his bag from the ground and crunches on a crisp. “These are stale,” she says, pulling a face. “Why’d you come here, when back wherever you’re from you probably get a hot meal every night?”

Remus lets out a long breath. He can feel his wand in his sleeve and is itching to bring it out and end this, but that would also mean ending it all, and returning to Dumbledore having failed almost entirely. He isn’t sure he’s prepared to do that yet. And neither of them are anything but casual, their wands hidden as well. “I’m underground wherever I go,” he says. “The food isn’t much better.” It’s not a complete lie, he thinks, remembering the lonely years in the cottage, the rather grim suppers in Grimmauld Place.

Ines shakes her head. “You’re doing this for someone,” she says. “Why? If it hurts you, if you’re hated?”

It’s the same question he’s been asking himself constantly in the long weeks since he arrived in this slum. The same one Sirius asked him on a windy March morning seventeen years ago. Remus doesn’t think he can say much more without giving them a real reason to fight him, so he takes the newspaper back and folds it away. “I don’t know why I do it,” he tells them. “I just have to do something.”

Remus leaves them there in the flickering glow of the streetlamp and returns to his own space: a frankly filthy mattress beneath the awning of an abandoned bistro. There, he lights his wand and reads the rest of the paper, thinking of a veil and an empty bed, and for a moment he’s certain that he does this for the higher purpose it offers—does this because without it, there doesn’t seem to be anything worth doing at all anymore.


End file.
